Anima
by Akurei Usagi
Summary: Summary: What makes an addiction? An obsession? In a strive for perfection and a search for beauty within the deepest corners of the soul... how far can you fall before you forget which way is up?
1. Prologue

_Anima_  
A Fruits Basket fanfiction by Akurei Usagi

Disclaimer: The _Fruits Basket_ anime and manga are the property of Takaya Natsuki. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only; no profit is being made.  
  
Secondary Disclaimer: This story will deal with dark, adult themes. If you are offended by the following situations, this story is probably not for you: psychological torture, BDSM, mutilation, murder, sex, and shounen ai/yaoi.  
  
_Anima_ is an Alternate Universe story dealing solely with the Mabudachi Trio. There is no Juunishi curse; however, to say the trio is not cursed at all wouldn't be accurate._Anima  
  
Definition: The inner self of an individual; the soul. In Jungian psychology, The unconscious or true inner self of an individual, as opposed to the persona, or outer aspect of the personality. The feminine inner personality, as present in the unconscious of the male. It is in contrast to the animus, which represents masculine characteristics._Prologue:

_See No Evil_  
  
Who are we to say where obsession begins? Surely it begins somewhere – a look, a touch, a taste. A tiny spark, fanned into a greater flame, fed until it becomes an unquenchable blaze. And it is that blaze that burns in the obsessed, the blind search for _more_ -- more money, more power, more sex... more.   
  
Even Shigure was not sure what had sparked his obsession. In fact, he would have disagreed that it was an "obsession" at all. A hobby, perhaps, or maybe a fixation –a task to be done to pass the time much like some would write poetry or paint. He was an artist at heart, and what some might have called obsession, he called inspiration.  
  
Sohma Shigure was an aesthete.  
  
He admired the beauty of the light glinting almost blindingly bright along a polished blade. His breath caught at the sight of creamy, trembling flesh before it was adorned with scarlet lines and curves -- with each line, every sweeping curve so painstakingly drawn with the hand of a practiced master. Soon, almost too soon, glossy, gleaming drops formed upon those lines like a string of flawless ruby beads. He watched, mouth dry, as those beads slid into each other, forming a perfect crimson ribbon dancing across achingly fair skin. Tears and sweat glistened like diamonds, and while it was his deepest wish to capture them, these rarest gems, and hold them forever, the diamonds soon dried into salt, and rubies soon darkened, thickening into ugly pitch. They would not be preserved; even photography failed to capture the brilliance of blood and tears as they mingled, sliding seductively across a living canvas that shuddered with tears and whimpered cries.  
  
He could not say with any certainty _why_ he did this. Did Michelangelo know _why_ he chose to infuse cold, hard marble with life? Did Baudelaire know _why_ poetry poured, tangled and tormented, from his soul? Creativity and inspiration were not things to be questioned. The muse, if challenged, will depart, and Shigure was not willing to allow his muse to dissipate into the ether, under any circumstances.  
  
He'd been in college -- he remembered that much. After having cut himself, quite accidentally, Shigure had started to clean the wound preparatory to covering it with an adhesive bandage. The movements had been automatic -- perhaps Hatori's influence on him -- but then, something stopped him. Something made him pause and watch the blood bead up on the cut. He'd been struck by the flawlessness of it. Even after gravity had turned the sphere into a streak, he watched transfixed as the brilliant line drew itself across the surface of his skin.  
  
And then, after the cut healed, Shigure found himself craving the sight over and over again. In the half-light of his college dormitory, he let sharp steel slice his skin, watching as garnet ribbons slid enticingly down his arm, or his leg, or his chest. But something was still missing. There was emptiness in this beauty, and Shigure had been at a complete loss as to how to rectify that. How to reach the fullness of the perfection he could sense was just beyond his grasp. The answer had come, quite unexpectedly, when Ayame had walked in on him.  
  
It was in that moment, that timeless moment when their eyes met and he watched Ayame's face slide from shock to realization and finally… to enthrallment. That had been the exact moment Shigure realized what he'd been missing.  
  
What was art without an audience? An audience who could fully appreciate the beauty his soul cried out to create.  
  
It progressed this way for quite some time, well beyond their college years -- Ayame watching Shigure. Always silent, holding his breath as his eyes followed every move of the dark-haired young man dragging a sharp blade across his skin. Ayame understood. He understood art; he understood the necessity to create, to admire. Ayame had an inherent appreciation for all that was beautiful, and Shigure strove to foster that.  
  
However, no plan is perfect.  
  
Shigure could still remember the sight of Ayame's face, ashen white with fear; glittering green eyes huge and almost hypnotic to him as he watched the unmitigated panic reflect through them. Ayame's hair, his beautiful silver hair had been clinging to a forehead slick with perspiration, bringing a sense of pride even through the pain at the condition only he could stir in his cousin.  
  
But still... he had cut himself too deeply in his enthusiasm, allowed himself to become sloppy in haste.  
  
With his vision blurring and the sounds fading all around him, he'd fallen into a sort of daze. There was the vague recollection of Ayame running from the room, slamming the door behind him so hard the floor shook beneath him. Then there was only blackness.  
  
When he finally woke, Shigure had struggled to sit up in the bed, only to stop at the sight of Ayame half-sprawled across his legs. His cousin looked exhausted, worried even in his restless slumber. And as Shigure brought his hand down to stroke soothingly over the fine silk of that silver hair, the realization struck him. He could no longer practice his art on himself. The need to create... his inspiration, his muse called for more.  
  
The solution that Shigure reached that night, lying in the dark with Ayame held so close under his hand was logical. Obvious.

_Hear No Evil_

So very much of the sublime, intrinsic beauty of the world was completely lost on the untrained senses of the common person passing by on the street… They had no appreciation for the intricacies of true art, no concept of the depths of sensation they should have been capable of experiencing.  
  
And to think… if not for one thing, _one_ moment frozen forever into his memory, he might have lived his life just like them.  
  
Sohma Ayame paused just beyond the road leading to Shigure's private home, their home. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply as he let the feel of those hollow eyes and empty smiles melt away. Turning his face upwards, he bathed in the weak heat radiating off the winter sun as his arms wrapped carefully around his slender torso. The wind picked up, caressing his face with its icy fingers and fanning the perfect curtain of silver hair in a wide arc behind him.  
  
A shiver chased down his spine and Ayame let his head fall back, baring his throat to the kiss of the elements. The whispers of wind through the leaves took new form, drawing his mind backwards into memories of so many nights before. One puff of air seemed to warm, bringing the faintest hint of a moan from his lips as his heartbeat grew louder in his ears.  
  
So many sounds… nothing could ever compare with each individual, delicious pant in his beautiful Shigure's voice. The rustle of clothing that sounded almost painfully loud in the stillness of night, and the nearly silent sound of Shigure creating his own perfection.  
  
Ayame shifted restlessly, caught up in his own world as his mind hungrily built the memories in stark clarity. He could practically taste the sweat from the back of Shigure's neck, hands tingling at the feel of that impossibly warm, silky body that never seemed to fully erase itself from Ayame's skin.  
  
How long ago had it been? That one moment when those enticing sounds had stirred his curiosity? Called to his very soul?  
  
What would he have become if he hadn't opened the door?  
  
Ayame took a shuddering breath as he tried to calm his body, letting his head roll to one side until he could raise one shoulder to rest it on. Would he have even noticed the emptiness gnawing away at him from the inside before his beloved Shigure had shown it to him? Would he have spent forever calling himself an artist and never realized how trapped he was within soulless, passionless drivel no better than the next?  
  
Ayame shook away the familiar questions drifting through his mind when he heard the sound of a voice in the distance. A blinding smile spread across his face, spinning around and darting along the tree-lined path with a much lighter step.  
  
Shigure was calling.

_Speak No Evil_  
  
If he'd known then what he knew now, he would have handled things differently from the very start.  
  
In Hatori's more honest moments, he would have admitted that he regretted getting involved at all. He regretted being home that night, opening the door to Ayame's frantic pounding. He regretted the pang of worry that clutched at him when he saw his cousin's face, so panicked and bloodless that his skin was practically translucent in the moonlight.  
  
But, no -- he knew nothing of reservations, then. He only knew that something was wrong, terribly, desperately wrong. And when something was wrong, his cousins, his closest friends, knew that they could count on him; they knew they could depend on him; they knew that they could trust him.  
  
Looking back, he knew that there was nothing innocent in Shigure's "accident." Hatori had known even then, but hadn't said a word. There were too many other seeping red lines across Shigure's bare torso, too many half-healed wounds making distinct patterns across his pale flesh. And the cut along the inner thigh, dangerously close to the femoral artery was an unlikely "accident," given his cousin's state of dress at the time. To say nothing of the shaving razor -- an old-fashioned straight razor -- held loosely in his slack hand.  
  
He should have said something then. He should have _helped_ them then, instead of simply cleaning up the mess. But, no, he'd patched Shigure up before calming Ayame, sitting with him, comforting him for an hour or two before he felt confident enough to leave them alone.  
  
Unfortunately, his involvement that night ended up setting something of a precedent. He should have said no from the start. He shouldn't have _listened_ to Shigure, but when his cousin -- one of his closest friends -- asked for his help, he couldn't say no. And when he realized what that "help" entailed...  
  
When he knew, it was too late to back out.  
  
Over and over again, Hatori replayed the night Shigure had come to him. It had seemed odd, even then, the solemnity shading his cousin's dark eyes, contrasting wildly with the excited flush beneath his skin.  
  
"I need your help, Ha-san," was all he'd said.  
  
And Hatori, of course, had been instantly worried, thinking only of the need to help his troubled cousin. The words haunted him still, those simple words he'd given so easily in the innocence of ignorance-- those words that ate away at his soul night after night.  
  
"Of course, Shigure. Anything. What's wrong?"  
  
And then Shigure had shown him what, exactly, was "wrong."


	2. Anima: Chapter One

Disclaimer: Not mine. The characters belong to Takaya-sensei. Hopefully she'll forgive me after I'm done with them...

Anima: Chapter One

* * *

_"I need your help, Ha-san."  
  
"Of course, Shigure. Anything. What's wrong?"  
_

* * *

_  
He never forgot his first. His muse._

  
The gallery showing was, much like he'd anticipated, overcrowded and uninspired. Shigure walked slowly through the gallery, barely noticing the art as he picked up bits and slivers of conversation hovering around him like a stagnant fog.  
  
_"--brilliant, just brilliant--"  
  
"--urban inspiration? How unique!"  
  
"They say he studied with--"_  
  
More pandering masses, more of the herd mentality: tell them it's unique, and they'll agree; tell them it's brilliant, and they'll buy it. Hundreds of thousands would be spent by these "connoisseurs" on soulless, mindless splashes of clashing paint on cheap canvas. Shigure's steps wove around and past the clusters of mindless sheep, meticulously avoiding contact as they stood huddled around a sculpture or painting, praising it in hushed, reverent tones. He stopped listening to them before long.  
  
The main exhibits of the night stood out in painful, jarring contrast against the soft light and classic structure of the gallery. Squares of steel, polished to a shine and riveted to other squares of steel, the glossy surface marred with spay paint, all of it placed neatly on their pedestals for tedious, unimaginative people to worship.  
  
"Urban" inspiration – they were calling it, as the artist had spent time in New York. Shigure rolled his eyes. They knew nothing about beauty, nothing about inspiration, nothing about the excruciating process of art. They knew absolutely nothing, and yet they dared show their faces here, trying to fool each other into believing they held some advanced level of sophistication. Playing make-believe as they spouted nonsense in efforts to draw in other, more easily beguiled admirers into praising their passion, their soul.  
  
He turned to leave, unable to stand the feel of these empty, revoltingly superficial shells choking his senses any longer. His movements reflected his disgust as well as his impatience, but as he turned, his eye caught a flash of color out of place among steel and painted concrete. A curious frown formed at his brow as he paused, tilting his head and taking a few steps closer.  
  
Her hair -- brown -- shone with threads of gold and auburn when she moved; it was upswept, and when she moved beneath the gallery lighting, color seemed to come alive, bouncing when light hit the long locks, twisted into a chignon and held in place with two slim, ornamental sticks. When she turned her head, mother of pearl glinted at him.  
  
Shigure's gaze trailed downward from her hair, following the line of her slender neck down to the graceful curve of her spine. The woman's evening dress left the full expanse of her back completely bare and the unhindered view of flawless, pale flesh glowing in the soft light made his breath catch. Unhurried steps brought him to her side where he stood for a moment or two, following her gaze. Silently, she studied the painting on the wall, never saying a word to him.  
  
Several more beats of silence passed before he cleared his throat. "What do you think of it?" he inquired politely, his tone indifferent as he braced himself for the disappointment of hearing the same hollow sentiments echo from her lips.  
  
The young woman looked up suddenly; hazel eyes framed with thick lashes blinked in surprise at his presence. "I beg your pardon?" she asked quietly. There was an accent laced through her words, a gentle lilt, but unmistakably present. Her syllables were a bit too clipped, her pronunciation too careful for the language to be her first. She sounded… yes, she sounded European -- British was his first guess.  
  
Shigure nodded once at the painting hanging on the wall to indicate the topic of his inquiry. "You appeared to be studying this one quite intently. Do you like it?" Thrashes of black and grey, crossed with careless streaks of silver filled the stark white canvas -- hideously abstract and stylishly urban.  
  
She said nothing for several seconds. "I don't particularly care for it."  
  
His brows lifted. "Oh?"  
  
"It's..." she fell silent, gazing at the piece. "It's like everything else here -- hard lines and sharp angles. I find it..." again she paused, obviously searching for the word she wanted to use, "unoriginal. Inspiration should not lead you to mimic the thing that inspired you." Shaking her head slowly, the woman pursed her lips in thought. "Besides, it's too inorganic for my taste, too cold. There's no color in it, no life."  
  
Shigure's eyes widened a fraction as his brows rose in surprise at the candid, wholly unexpected observation. After wave upon wave of blind, monotonous praise and simpering interpretations, the last thing he'd thought to find was an opinion similar to his own -- dissenting, unimpressed. It was gratifying in its discordance from the hollow acclaim of the masses.  
  
Shigure's lips slowly curved upwards as she met his gaze with a speculative one of her own until an answering smile tugged at her lips.  
  
"Please, forgive my lack of manners," he said smoothly, leaning forward in a bow. "My name is Sohma Shigure."  
  
"Claire," she replied, reciprocating the gesture with practiced ease. "Claire Bennett. It's a pleasure, Mist-- ah... Sohma-san."  
  
When they were again face to face, he smiled; this time the tilt of his lips held more genuine warmth. "I assure you, Bennett-san, the pleasure is mine." Clearing his throat, he tucked his arms habitually into the voluminous sleeves of his kimono as he cast a searching look around the gallery. "Don't tell me; your less than glowing review of Hakamoto's art alienated all your friends, didn't it?"  
  
She chuckled, mimicking his glance before looking back at him almost teasingly. "Actually, I came out on my own. Intolerable boredom and morbid curiosity are powerful motivators, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"Ah, boredom and curiosity." Shigure nodded sagely. "I believe there are a few proverbs to that effect, aren't there?'  
  
"The devil makes work for idle hands?"  
  
"That would be one, yes." His lips quirked as he sent her an amused grin. "Can you guess the other?"  
  
"The other -- oh, that's too easy, Sohma-san. Curiosity killed the cat."  
  
He leaned in, perhaps closer than propriety would have dictated, his line of sight dropping meaningfully to her lips. "But satisfaction brought it back, ne?"  
  
A faint flush warmed her cheeks, but she did not demur. "You sound as if you know something about satisfaction, Sohma-san."  
  
Something that looked a great deal like promise flickered in the depths of his eyes as he tilted his head to give the impression of thinking her remark over. "I would never presume such a thing, Bennett-san," he returned lightly, his eyes wide and patently guileless.  
  
He didn't expect her to believe it. He rather hoped she wouldn't.  
  
Claire shifted her weight a bit, and the fact that the subtle movement lifted her breasts slightly did not go unnoticed by Shigure. "You wouldn't presume to know anything about satisfaction?" she asked, arching an eyebrow slightly. She paused for a moment, sending him a blatantly appraising look. "How disappointing."  
  
Taking half a step closer, he looked down, regarding her. "Ah, Bennett-san -- I am a great many things, but I am most certainly not disappointing." His voice was low, his tone silken -- the aural equivalent of warm honey.  
  
A muscle moved in her throat as she swallowed. "Perhaps I misunderstood, Sohma-san. But you did say--"  
  
"I said I would not presume to _know_ anything about satisfaction -- yes, that's quite true. However, it is my fervent desire to learn, to continuously educate myself in such an important subject. No one man should presume to _know_ about something so vast as satisfaction. That is arrogance, my dear Bennett-san. It is but my humble wish to study this enigma, this mystery we call 'satisfaction,' so that someday I might be lucky enough to call it a skill."  
  
"I see," she murmured, earthen eyes watching him intently. "That's quite a shame, because while I would never have expected to find a master of the art, I had hoped to find someone who was more than a pupil." Her full lips tugged into a tiny, wicked smirk. "I guess I'll just have to keep looking."  
  
Shigure closed his eyes, clucking his tongue mournfully. "Why, oh why must lovely women willfully misunderstand me?" he murmured, his expression one of mock lament.  
  
"Come now, Sohma-san, we willful females must have _something_ with which to entertain ourselves -- wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"I do, quite. But more on that in a moment." He held one finger up. "What I think you're failing to understand, Bennett-san, is that a student can devote years of his life to the study of a subject -- decades, even -- and still consider himself a student simply because he is too modest and too aware of his shortcomings to consider himself anything more."  
  
"I see," she murmured, the gleam in her eyes sparking and heating into something unmistakably clear: desire. They had returned each other's volleys for quite long enough; it was time to elevate the level of the game. "Odd. I hadn't thought you particularly..." she paused meaningfully, "modest." Slender shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. "My mistake, Sohma-san. It won't happen again."  
  
It was at that point that Claire took a small step closer, closing the distance between them almost entirely. Shigure caught the scent of her perfume, a delicate, musky scent, twined with spice, and he savored it as he looked down at her. The air around them became charged, their common dissention the thread that had at first drawn them to each other, and now the thread of common attraction winding them tighter.  
  
She inclined her head a bit, meeting his gaze fully. "So, Sohma-san, tell me. What are these... shortcomings?"  
  
"Well, Bennett-san, it seems to me that it wouldn't be quite fair for me to simply list them for you. It's the sort of thing you must judge for yourself -- wouldn't you say?"  
  
There was no confusion, no misunderstanding -- there was no misinterpretation at all. Her smile was slow as her eyes darkened, watching him with unconcealed appreciation. "I can think of nothing I'd prefer, Sohma-san."  
  
"And," he added, "should you require any assistance in this evaluation, I'm certain my cousin Ayame would be only too eager to offer his input as well."  
  
This was where he would have expected her eyes to widen as she took a hasty step back. This was the point at which she was supposed to blush and mumble a hurried excuse before turning and disappearing into the herd she had deserted earlier. This was where he expected to alienate her completely.  
  
Such was not the case, and it pleased him.  
  
Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips -- his eyes were riveted on her lips -- and she gave him another small smile as her eyebrow tilted just a fraction. "How convenient," she said quietly, her tone almost a purr. "I do appreciate having someone with whom I can confer on such... pleasant matters."  
  
"My, my -- that is convenient," he replied with a soft chuckle. "Perhaps, if it wouldn't be too bold of me to say so, we might find somewhere else more conducive to observation?"  
  
She appeared to consider it for a few moments. "Personally, I think that's a marvelous idea. This..." she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. After a moment or two, a tiny, derisive smile curved her mouth as she nodded at the gaggle of onlookers. The ignorant masses were _still_ crooning over what they had the audacity to call "art." She cleared her throat pointedly. "This... environment isn't favorable to what one might call unfettered thought."  
  
Shigure flashed her a bright smile that illuminated his features. "Excellent! Then we are in agreement." Offering his arm, he shot one last glance back at the crowd. For a moment it appeared to resemble the art it admired: grey, still, bloodless. He blinked once, and the illusion had vanished; once again they were moving around, murmuring amongst themselves. Shaking off the sensation, he led the woman out of the gallery.  
  
They stepped out into the night, the air charged with nocturnal energy. The sudden rush of noise was a remarkable contrast to the misplaced reverence inside the gallery. Shigure's eyebrows drew together in thought as he considered his various options.  
  
"Would you care for a drink, Bennett-san?"  
  
She thought it over before gracing him with an answering smile. "A drink sounds marvelous."

* * *

The establishment he'd chosen was quietly upscale. A place most commonly frequented by high-level executives looking for a chance to pause before abandoning the banality afforded them by high rise office buildings in exchange for homes filled with shrewish wives and thankless children. However it was late enough that only a smattering of people remained when Shigure led his impromptu companion through the door, and for that he was thankful.  
  
By and large, he had a passing tolerance for mankind; they annoyed him in their ignorance, but he was often able to simply ignore them. And, as it happened, the evening at the gallery had already soaked up a majority of what little patience he might have had left. The maître d' -assuming they were lovers- showed them to a table situated in the back. Neither of them took the initiative to correct him.

He wanted to see how she behaved; he wanted to see her stripped of her social mask. Shigure knew better than most the ease with which one could shift and adapt to different situations -- different people. Was she such a chameleon? Was she truly what she had appeared to be under the gallery lighting?  
  
He very sincerely doubted it.  
  
And so, he watched her, skilled eyes tracking the nuances of her gestures, in her expression. He kept waiting for her to stumble, to slip, to reveal herself as something other than what she was presenting herself as.  
It came, but not in the way Shigure was anticipating. He'd sat with her for a few hours, asking questions and answering them in turn. She was a doctoral candidate from Cambridge: archaeology. She had a passing appreciation for art, but did not pretend to be an expert. Simply put, she preferred classic to modern, old to new, simple to cluttered, and held a fondness for yamato-e -- Suibokuga, in particular.  
  
As they sat, drinking their way through one, then two bottles of sake, Shigure found himself contemplating the feel of her body crushed against his; he imagined his palms coasting across her slender frame with its subtle curves. His fingers itched to slide the ornamental sticks from her hair, releasing the chignon in a glorious tumble of spun mahogany. And, judging from the way her eyes dropped to his lips when he spoke, Shigure had a feeling her mind was on much the same track.  
  
He tilted his head in consideration. "Have you ever tried Otokoyama, Bennett-san?"  
  
Her brows drew together gracefully. "I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure."  
  
"I have a bottle," he replied lightly, letting the invitation hang in the air, unspoken but _there_.  
  
A short beat of silence passed during which time her eyes dipped suggestively. "On you?"  
  
He laughed at that. "Alas, no, not on me. At home." One inky brow arched, and a small, secretive smile flitted across his lips. "If you like, I could ask my cousin to put it on ice for us."  
  
Claire paused briefly, her expression contorting in puzzlement. "On ice? But I always thought --"  
  
He cut her off, holding his hand up. "My lovely Bennett-san, do trust me on this."  
  
She smiled, and there was no mistaking the promise in it. "Very well, Sohma-san. I will simply have to defer to your broad base of knowledge. If you know as much about wine as you seem to know about art..."  
  
He leaned forward, propping his chin upon his open palm, catching her with his dark gaze. "I daresay I know a great deal more about art… Bennett-san."


End file.
